


Even if you cannot hear my voice I'll be right beside you dear

by JuliaBaggins



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, M/M, Memories
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 21:15:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5717377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuliaBaggins/pseuds/JuliaBaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He had been in his hotel room, getting ready to have dinner with Gaby, when he got the call. Waverly’s voice was rough, his British accent clearer to hear than usual, and his words ripped Illya’s heart out of his body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even if you cannot hear my voice I'll be right beside you dear

**Author's Note:**

> Well, angsty fics seem to be what happens when I'm in a good mood... xD
> 
> You can also read this story in Russian as sayinside translated it: https://ficbook.net/readfic/4418504 :)

It was a perfect summer day, the sun was shining brightly, birds singing their happy songs. The big old trees surrounding the graveyard were dressed in a light green that would have fitted rather to May than July but they didn’t seem to care. They just stood there, looking like they would belong to an earlier time. To a time where everything had still been alright. But now it wasn’t. Nothing was alright, at least it wasn’t for Illya Kuryakin when he walked past those trees, heading for the center of the graveyard.

There were speeches, lots of them, by Waverly and other old men in expensive suits. Waverly was the only one whose mourning wasn’t looking like a mask put in place; he seemed to be the only one who truly grieved for the man they had lost. The others were just playing their parts, doing their speeches but saying nothing.

Illya listened to every single word but none of it seemed to reach his mind. He held an arm around Gaby’s shoulders, tight, like she was the only thing keeping him away from falling apart. Of course that was only how it looked – inside, behind his petrified expression, Illya had already fallen apart. The rage was long gone and he nearly missed her as she had been replaced by desperation, guilt, regret and this incredible sadness that stuck her claws deep into his heart. A painful mix of those emotions was everything he could feel for days now and he could hardly imagine that it would ever change.

 

He had been in his hotel room, getting ready to have dinner with Gaby, when he got the call. Waverly’s voice was rough, his British accent clearer to hear than usual, and his words ripped Illya’s heart out of his body. 

It had been supposed to be nothing but a routine mission, a little case of stolen documents that needed to be brought back. Nothing his partner could not handle very well on his own while the rest of the team was busy with another mission. They had been successful, rescuing the hostage whose father was a man with influence in the highest circles. 

They had been successful; they all had made it back home. And there while, Napoleon Solo had died. Stabbed by an amateur blackmailer at the other end of the world. Bleeding to death on a cold stone floor. Alone. Illya couldn’t get the images out of his mind, the helpless look he imagined in Napoleon’s eyes, and he would never forgive himself. 

 

The service was over and people started to leave, getting back to their life after a ceremony that hadn’t been more than an unpleasant duty. Illya stayed, and so did Gaby. The two of them were silent for a long time, the crowd got smaller and smaller until finally, they were the only ones still there. Waverly had just gone, patting Illya awkwardly on the back and pulling Gaby close for a short hug. Then he had disappeared without a word. Illya didn’t blame him, or at least he tried not to – there was no way their boss could have seen that turn of events. He was not even sure if he could have changed anything if he had been there with Napoleon but he knew that he would have rather given his own life than let his partner die if there had been a chance to. But there wasn’t one. 

And now, Illya was looking at Napoleon’s gravestone, white marble with elegant letters on it. His eyes read the name over and over, caressing the letters with his views as if to make up for the comfort he hadn’t been able to provide in Napoleon’s last minutes. Finally, his gaze left the name and found the numbers underneath it.

“We never did anything for Cowboy’s birthday.”

Gaby looked up at him, eyes red, tracks of tears on her cheeks. Through all the pain, the loss on her face, Illya could see that she was not yet understanding.

“We should have. Celebrated I mean. Something fancy, he would like that.” 

Illya noticed the mistake in his words, how it was supposed to be _would have liked_ instead of _would like_. But he just couldn’t say it as he knew that though his heart was already hurting worse than it ever had, saying the words out loud would mean to admit it. It would become something final and he knew that he couldn’t bear that, not yet.

Gaby had smiled a heartbreakingly sad smile when Illya had mentioned how Napoleon would have enjoyed some kind of fancy birthday party and when he had finished talking, she started to move. She made a few little steps until she stood right in front of the gravestone, placed one of her hands on the sun-heated marble and spoke words Illya wasn’t able to understand. Then, she left, and Illya didn’t try to stop her. He knew how hard it was for her, too, what she had lost, and he was convinced that there was some kind of grief one could only face alone.

 

Illya still stood there when the shadows of the old trees started to grow longer and the sun painted bright shades of red across the horizon. The birds had stopped singing, as if finally, they had understood how today was not the time for happy songs. Illya thought about how different today might have been if Napoleon hadn’t died. If he had made it home, all of them getting a few days off after finishing two missions with success. He would have mocked Napoleon for his behavior on his mission, for what a terrible spy he had been, though now, after all those years, both of them knew that he wasn’t serious with it. Probably they would have met for dinner with Gaby, listening to Napoleon discussing the served meals and whine for hours. And maybe, just maybe, they would have found a quiet moment, just the two of them, to talk about Barcelona.

 

They had been in Spain about two weeks ago, taking down an international circle of art thieves - something Napoleon seemed to enjoy a lot, especially as he never missed an opportunity to point out how they had never been as good as him. 

After the work was done they had still one evening left before their flight would bring them home, and Gaby had excused herself from their hotel with some silly excuse and in a short red dress that suited her excellently. Illya couldn’t help suspecting that maybe, this had something to do with the journalist whose life they had saved yesterday after he had stuck his nose a bit too deep into the case of a disappeared painting. His amused smile had been mirrored on Napoleon’s face when both of them saw how Gaby and the journalist looked at each other after they had got him out of the warehouse that was to explode soon.

So, Gaby was gone and Illya had been busy with his book for some time before he decided to give Napoleon a visit. The American’s room was next to his and when Illya nocked softly at the door, there was no response. He even called Napoleon’s name which earned him no reaction as well. Maybe he had gone out too, looking for a nice Spanish girl to amuse him? 

Without really thinking about it Illya had grabbed the door handle and was surprised when he found himself able to open the door. It hadn’t been locked, which seemed rather strange, and Illya was close to starting to worry when he spotted Napoleon standing on the balcony, nothing but a black silhouette against the dark blue sky. He looked so calm, so unconscious about his mistake with the unlocked door that Illya decided to teach him a lesson.

Napoleon had closed his eyes, enjoying the silence and the warm Spanish evening when he felt cold metal pressing against the skin at the back of his neck. He knew how there was barely a chance for him, not with a gun pointed at his neck, and so he wondered why though he _knew_ that his situation was helpless, it didn’t _feel_ that way. And when an oh so familiar voice started to whisper in his ear, he understood why.

“Cowboy is careless. Could have killed you if I wanted. You’re a terrible spy, you know that?”

The gun was still pressed to Napoleon’s neck but he could also hear the light smirk in Illya’s voice. He turned around and the Russian changed the gun’s position. It was pointing at Napoleon’s forehead now.

“What would you do, if I was an enemy?”

Napoleon had decided to accept the challenge in Illya’s words.

“I would try to distract you.”

And with that, he had pressed his mouth to Illya’s. His partner was shocked at first when he felt Napoleon’s lips on his own, but then there was this strange warm feeling in his chest and suddenly, he had noticed that he was kissing the American back. He had lost himself in the feeling of those soft lips, in the taste of Napoleon, in his hands all over him. And suddenly, Napoleon had pulled away. There was a grin on his face and he held Illya’s gun in one of his hands, pointed to the Russian’s chest. 

“Looks like I’m not such a terrible spy after all, doesn’t it?”

Napoleon sounded a bit breathless and Illya found himself unable to answer. With another grin, Napoleon leaned forward, took one of Illya’s hands in his and placed the gun there. And then, Illya had left, getting away from the balcony as well as his partner’s hotel room without a look back. As soon as he was back in his own room, he put the gun at the small table next to his bed and tried to understand the hot feeling that seemed to be everywhere around his body.

 

They hadn’t spoken of what happened at the balcony the next morning, being mostly silent during breakfast and talking nonsense on their way to the airport. Gaby, who had joined them when they were ready to leave the hotel, seemed like she wanted to ask about their strange behavior, but she didn’t. 

And when the plane had gone down at an airport far away from Barcelona and their ways had parted, a car waiting for Illya and Gaby while Napoleon had to get on another plane for his solo mission, there also was no talking of it. But when Napoleon shook Illya’s hand after he had hugged Gaby Goodbye, there was something in his eyes. Something like a promise. And Illya had sworn to himself that as soon as he would see the American again, he would ask him what that kiss had meant. If it had been for the sole purpose of showing him how he would have been able to get out of the situation with an enemy or if there was more about it. If there maybe even was a reason to hope for Illya.

Only that he never got the chance to ask these questions as he never saw Napoleon Solo alive again.

 

The evening’s red had melted into a dark blue when Illya stepped closer to the gravestone, so close that it would have been easy to touch it. His hand lingered inches above the surface, slightly shaking and not yet ready to touch the stone, the last proof of Napoleon’s death. Instead of reaching out and finally touching it, he got down on his knees, felt the cold ground beneath him through the expensive material his black suit was made of. 

Illya leaned his head against the stone, the marble felt nearly smooth at his forehead and then, after all these days of rage and grief and regret, there was finally a single tear that escaped Illya’s eye. 

He didn’t care about it as he knew that if any man ever was worth his tears, it had been Napoleon Solo. 

For he had loved him, which he just realized a bit too late.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed reading that story.
> 
> Comments would make my day! ❤


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